


Thesauri

by travellinghopefully



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Denial, Implications, M/M, Machiavelli, Not my ship, Slash, Smut, bad for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6829942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt - Malcolm/Julius fic. Malcolm loses a bet to Julius, pays up by going to Julius' place for the night. (Adult).</p><p>Hopefully this fulfils the prompters desires....now, I don't exactly ship Julius and Malcolm, nor do I ever see Malcolm consciously losing a bet. So hopefully I have implied enough by everyone's states of mind. </p><p>Malcolm the Machiavellian...</p><p>with smut</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thesauri

Everything is always a good idea, ‘til its not.

Lord Nicholson of Arnage was in trouble, he was a man to whom people said "yes", and if they didn’t he could buy it anyway. Not that he was as common, or vulgar, to think of things in terms of money. But, this, this was a conundrum, he wanted something he couldn’t have. All his planning, all his scheming, all his engineering, his connections, his intellect, his charm, his fortune and the one thing he wanted was beyond him.

Hubris, hoist on his own petard, hoist on something (pitiful pun)

The bets were inconsequential, then mildly amusing. Football for goodness sake, not even cricket.

Eating onion bhajis acquired certain extra connotations. Holding them delicately between his fingertips (apparently, slightly offended), the buff of his manicure apparent (when had he started to notice things like that), how adroitly he held the snack, no wincing at the prospect of grease coating his fingers, no hint that he would really prefer to use a knife and fork and have a moist towelette at his elbow, lightly fragranced with a pleasing lemon scent and perfectly warmed. 

Malcolm didn’t reflect on the size of the morsel, or how the fuckers mouth slowly opened, closed, the deliberate crunch, the obvious bite, the slow deliberate lick of his lips, the eye contact, the deliberate flourish as he slowly licked his fucking fingers clean.

Malcolm didn’t watch as the filling spurted over Julius’ chin, there was no urge to swipe his thumb over his flesh, no urge to catch and clean with his tongue.

No, this wasn’t a thing.

Neither of them commented, analysed, dissected, this, the bets, the consequences, the time together, the forfeits, the punishments, the planning, the anticipation. No, neither of them thought anything at all. This, somehow a pressure valve for everything else (or it could be, if either of them acknowledged it), their relationship, their working relationship, this thing, that could at best receive the accolade “combative”. Whatever Julius’ personal thoughts or reflections.

Julius wouldn’t ever countenance, to himself, to posterity (ah, his memoirs, airbrushing that Stalin would be proud of), to his confessor how much he wanted to lose himself in a pair of sea storm eyes, how his only true goal was to engineer falling apart under long, elegant fingers. History would not record that of him. 

It started innocuously as all things did. Season 1, a light hearted comedy, no tinge of the darkness to come. Julius began by texting Malcolm obscene limericks during important meetings, trying to provoke a scintilla of reaction. He didn’t trust himself then, and he remained anonymous ‘til he felt Malcolm’s mouth hot against his ear, the merest whispered words of recognition, enough to spur him on. He drew the line at indecent images, although...ah well.

He had a tendency towards the absurd, the antiquated, the archaic. A ridiculous wager over “thesaurus versus thesauri” both declaring themselves the winner. 

The following during PMQ

“There was a young man of St Paul’s  
Possessed of the most useless of balls  
Till at last at the Strand  
He managed to stand  
And tossed himself off in the stalls.”

It conveyed his intent, and Malcolm could never level the accusation that he suffered from Tom’s catastrophic erectile dysfunction, despite his many failings and determination to point them out.

Malcolm found it far, far too easy to win, the challenge lay in losing convincingly, creatively. Neither could catch the other in a lie. That neither would ever acknowledge there was anything more than sport in their combat. They remained always fiercely aware of their own rules.

Heavy cream paper. Angling it to the light, the conspicuous monogram woven throughout (pompous fucker), exquisite copperplate calligraphy, he may have paused to reflect on the Mont Blanc pen he may have gifted him. The consequences of the last wager (Julius avoided the word “bet” wherever possible, memories of an unfortunate antecedent, past manorial losses and all that, apparently 300 years didn’t make things easier). 

As Malcolm read the words, taking off his glasses, folding them, shoving them away, he massaged the bridge of his nose, let out a puff of frustrated breath. How Julius had believed he would have agreed to this of his own free will? Perhaps he had feigned being deeper in his cups than he truly was – too tired a cliché to believe, that a Scot might like a drink. What exactly were they doing? When had he crossed the line from political expediency into whatever territory they were in now?

The cast of characters in their play, never wholly acknowledged :the entirely hypothetical Mrs Tucker, amazing how many mouths shut with a simple band of gold; the spectre at the feast, the shade of Lady Nicholson, mother and wife; Lady Arnage – wife, currently unappeased by garden parties and a villa in Tuscany. They orbited outside the spheres of anything that actually mattered.

The first (of many) party conference, a questionable alliance between them, the wager to steer a charmless no hoper through, with no hint of a slip. He could do anything, he could spin anything, he had a map of where all the bodies lay (or he would have, he was working on it, he was no ones inferior, it didn’t matter where he had clawed his way up from), he had the numbers of the wives, the mistresses, their childhood Sunday School teachers. The challenge lay in having Julius believe he was capable of making a mistake, making a misstep, something small, something noticeable, something that wouldn’t live on as a yearly tweet or wiki entry, not enough to seem truly fallible, but perhaps passing for a moment for human. 

He didn’t question why it mattered.

 

Courier, anonymous package, sign for, ridiculously early. Wear women’s underwear for the day – he should have checked the fine print – he had something entirely suitable in mind – instead he was presented by this monstrosity. He ran the “thing” between his fingers, he could already feel the static, hideously synthetic, scratchy, nylon lace, tastelessly skimpy and the colour, swamp green? Regimental sludge? (Not a possible kink he wanted to let his mind explore, had Julius been a soldier?). He still tried them on, no, they were impossible, they chafed, the elastic cut across him, pressed against him, no, he would have to be an entirely different kind of masochist for these to be a thing. Julius had definitely forgotten he might be a skinny fuck (it didn’t mean all of him was small and thin) , but there were other things to consider to ensure his comfort, ....

2pm , tea, biscuits, no interruptions. Malcolm reclining, feet on his desk, hands tucked behind his head. Julius insisted on checking, of course he did. Malcolm could have changed before the meeting, but he wasn’t about to lie or cheat, there was enough of that. 

Malcolm didn’t move, didn’t alter his expression. Neither acknowledged that he was conspicuously hard, he didn’t pass comment when Julius ran his finger up his length, the thin striped cotton, rubbing against him. No flicker, he knew what self control was, he ignored the fact his body belied the fact. There was such a thing as coincidence after all, no he wasn’t going to visit the thoughts that he had been contemplating this moment since he had received Julius’ effusive missive. 

“Don’t think these were the ones I picked out?”

Malcolm may have launched into a lengthy diatribe concerning the paucity of the original item, the quality – Julius stopped listening (if he started...Malcolm didn’t refasten his fly) somewhere around the point where Malcolm described an allergic reaction and the need for the application of soothing emollients. 

“I shall expect you at 8.”

“You can expect all you fucking want.”

He dismissed him with a cursory wave of his hand.

He waited for the count of 10, crossed the room, locking the door. He flicked his phone to silent. He could allow himself 10 minutes, perhaps 15. 

He settled back in his chair. Shoving his trousers down his thighs, flicking his boxers open, closing his hand round himself. He didn’t connect what he was doing with thoughts of Julius, he avoided thinking anything at all, a moments pause, a short circuit of bliss his only aim. He concentrated on the moment of his fingers the pressure of his thumb where he was most sensitive, rolling his balls, sliding his fingers behind and thinking of nothing, absolutely nothing at all.

Injudicious, foolish, positively stupid, didn’t stop it happening, the offending article finally having a use, cleaning himself off, folding the fabric into a tiny square, securing them in and inside pocket.

He arrived closer to 1am than 8pm. A deliberate provocation? He only wished. Hadn’t eaten, hadn’t showered, hadn’t shaved – he had made one minor change, but he would leave Julius to uncover that, or not.

Julius didn’t cup his face, didn’t allow his thumb to trace the stubble outlining his jaw, didn’t feel each pin prick a glorious jolt of arousal. Didn’t lean his face towards him, suppressed any expression of hope that this might be the occasion when Malcolm would let him kiss him. Thoughts of the taste of his mouth, citrus, coffee, heat and vitriol. Shut that down, close it off.

Handed them to him as he arrived, reflexively lifted to his nose, the unmistakable scent, realising this was Malcolm...the implication... the man might just kill him with this (he had just gifted Malcolm something else to beat him up about, tease him.....hold over him....yes....just kill him now.)

Not even worth his breath to make the wager, the ante constantly upped, a frisson, the hint of something, a memory of strong fingers, of warm pliant, comforting skin (shaking his head), every moment leading to something that always remained just out of reach.

Too much a man of words, think, just this once, should be one of action, pushing Malcolm back into the ludicrous peacock velvet armchair (he wouldn’t say how comfortable it was). Opening his buckle (not fumbling) , sliding the leather through the loops, taking his time, unzipping his fly, revealing thick silk, slippery, as tempting as peach skin. Malcolm perfectly outlined, damp spots of arousal darkening the fabric. (Engineering a version of events where he would get to keep the ones he was wearing now)

Malcolm leaned in, he held Julius by his tie, his mouth by his ear. 

Take your lips, your throat, your nipples, your paltry cock, suck you down, run my tongue over you, dip into your slit, run the flat of my tongue along the length of you. 

Make.

You.

Come.

Hot breath against his ear, words barely a whisper, his teeth just nipping, the only part touching him, none of his words transforming into actions. 

The only death, the little one.

Too much and never enough.

The moan, the gasp, the convulsive grasp of his sleeve, the tell tale patch of wet spreading across the fabric of his trousers. Damn the man, damn his voice, damn his brogue, damn his words.

Hitch in his breath, a hiss. 

Malcolm hadn’t even shed his coat, his scarf still wound round his throat.

He didn’t say anything else.

The only thing Julius heard was the door closing and the roar of his blood.

Even when he won, he was always the loser. 

Damn the man.

Any endearments were carefully swallowed, bitten back, forgotten, not stored against the future of excoriating battles where scorched earth would be a benison.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I crave feedback
> 
> Hated this - please tell me, with detail (thanks)
> 
> Loved this - please tell me
> 
> Really loved this - (really, you love Julius/Malc?) please share!


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